Chapter Six
~
A heavy knock raised me out of a reoccurrin’ dream about strugglin’ with the names of muscle groups. As dreams go, that isn’t one I mind gettin’ interrupted. I counted. One. Two—got to the standard six and my door opened. Mama’s good about givin’ us just enough time to cover up if we aren’t decent.
I looked at my bedroom windows. Not a slick slice of light peakin’ in the shutters. “Mama,” I whined. “It’s not even the ogre’s butt crack of dawn. I’m on stinkin’ vacation.”
“Get yar lazy ogre-troll butt out of bed. We’re goin’ to the gym to support yar Uncle Ike.”
“Since when does that lowdown stinkin’ ogre need my support? At the gym?” That last part probably came out in a confused screech.
“Several of Ike’s old buddies, played in the COBL—” That would be the Continental Ogre Basketball League. “Tippin’ the ball up early this morn. Should be a bunch of fun watchin’ yar uncle slam into a concrete pick.”
And she thought that would be somethin’ I would want to see? I worked at the most disgustin’ expression I could come up with, which shoulda been a pretty good one considerin’ the sun was far from teasin’ the Eastern Slope.
“Now get up. We’re goin’ as a family.”
“Papa bought into this?” I asked. Surely not.
“And pack a gym bag. Ya know ya’ll wanna get in a pickup game after seein’ yar Uncle Ike get woefully clubbed half to death.”
“Complete death, would be worth goin’ to see,” I said.
Mama growled a troll chuckle. “Wouldn’t that be grand.”
“This’ll be all ogres?” I asked.
She grinned, lips stretchin’ high across her tusks.
Ike has mostly played in mixed league for years on the North Plain where human refs blow a whistle faster than snot on an ogre drawin’ blood from a poor, little human. Despite the devastation soundin’ fun, I felt my head droop back into my pillow. “You guys go on. I’ll catch up with ya.”
Mama crossed from the door and ripped my sheet off the bed. Anticipatin’, I’d gripped it tight, but havin’ a troll mama has its disadvantages. I nearly lost a good four fingers, at least. “Up. Oh. Those are cute pajamas. I see the troll influence at TIT is servin’ ya well.”
I looked down to note what I’d climbed into last night. More modest than the typical ogre tank and wongo panties. Long sleeves. Ankle-length pantaloons. Bright colors that could blind an elf in good light. A whimsical unicorn and dragon motif. A gift from my troll roommate.
“Yar papa buys me nothin’ but ogre sleepin’ wear for gifts. Says troll modesty is the only thin’ he’d change about me.” A tad of color flowed across her cheeks. Her mouth opened, but whatever thought niggled in her brain, she decided not to share it. Thankfully.
My mind screamed back to the evenin’ she’d decided she needed to tell me about the fairies and flowers, since I was gonna be livin’ away from home in a dorm soon. She used descriptions and examples that were way too personal, to broaden my awareness and appreciation for the male-female relationship.
Goodness. I’d already taken AP Physiology and Anatomy. I’d gotten more realistic overviews from sleepovers when I was in the seventh grade. Well, maybe. Teenyboppers may hold ideas that aren’t all that realistic. Makin’ it to TIT at thirteen years old, has probably kept me from gettin’ the experience most young hens get at college.
Mama’s mouth opened again, cheeks turnin’ ever redder.
“Ya’re not gonna talk about sex are ya?” I rolled out of bed so I didn’t have to look her directly in the eyes. Besides, I wondered if I’d ever meet a bull interested in a half troll, half ogre, who looks more like an over-sized human.
Didn’t help that throughout my entire life the younglings I attended school with have always been much older than me. Shoulda failed a few exams, maybe.
“Ya’re not the first youngling that’s wanted to grow up too fast,” she said. “Yar Aunt Ezra never thought she’d meet the right bull. She was well into her forties, but ya won’t ever lay eyes on a happier ogre.”
Uncle Jam is hilarious. Hard to believe he’s the Range’s lead law officer. His dreads had been turnin’ white when Hale and I were still in diapers. Already retired from a career up North. He’s almost loved as much as Uncle Ike, and that’s sayin’ a lot for a troll. Those folk aren’t usually that outgoin’.
“Is that a tear?” Mama asked.
I rushed to wipe my cheek, and barked an awkward laugh. “Fond memories, those two babysittin’ us at the inn, puttin’ us to work peelin’ potatoes or stirrin’ stew. I can remember Hale even showin’ interest, ridin’ patrol with Uncle Jam.”
“Jam loves yar fool papa,” she half whispered. “Drivin’ ’round the neighborhood wasn’t much of a patrol.”
Just like Papa and Ike talkin’ at each other as though long-time enemies. Jam had more troll, derogatory remarks for Papa than a calculator could count. All said with a straight face. The bull never scared me though. His eyes would light up when he’d see me.
I sighed, deep inside. Ezra and Jam. Reverse of Mama and Papa. And both given fraternal twins to raise, also a male and female, the Hamlet’s other half breeds. Whatever came between Hale and me, and Woriz and Izig—
“Ya’re thinkin’ about yar cousins,” Mama said.
I hurried to wipe both cheeks this time.
“I’ve seen them both in the Hamlet. Work in shops in the afternoon, after school. If ya wanna—”
I wrenched a look at her. She better not try to get us together. The pain gripped me as though fresh. Izig had spoken so meanly. That last time had been enough. Woriz never had, ever, been kind to Hale. How did I ever forgive him for that, year in, year out?
“It’s been a long time,” Mama said softly. “They’ve matured.”
I burned her a look. Could they have really been so judgmental, all superior about gettin’ the better troll genes? Our break, had finally driven a last spike between Papa and the parents. Uncle Jam had tried to fix it. Always willin’ to smile and shake Papa’s hand when we crossed paths. And Mama’s continued to be a good friend with Ezra. But it was never again like it was.
Maybe I should have worked harder to make it work.
~
Hale
~
When we clamored into the back of Papa’s old truck, I gave Bele a look she knew would mean, what’s up.
She just tightened her lips and turned to look out her window, as though there was a lot to see in the driveway.
I looked up front at Mama. She returned a meanin’ful expression, raised one brow. Maybe a warnin’ not to make a thin’ about it. But if there was somethin’ goin’ on with Bele, I wanted to know.
I’m good at waitin’, though.
Papa backed us around, slow like he does, Mama does most of the family drivin’, and I caught maybe a hint that the eastern sky blushed just a tiny shade. Papa and I had sat in the kitchen for an hour already finishin’ off a mountain of flapjacks Mama had prepared for, I assume the four of us, and emptyin’ a carafe of coffee. Papa and I had shared an eye, the hens not makin’ an appearance. There was somethin’ up, and he wasn’t in the loop either.
No one spoke a word the twenty-minute drive up the road to our nearest neighborin’ village. While not unusual for Papa and I not to say a word, it kept my eyes goin’ back and forth between Mama and Bele. Yeah, Mama’s a troll hen, but she’s still a hen. Never before heard a hen go twenty minutes without sayin’ a word.
Parkin’ in the gym’s lot, Bele got out quickly, leavin’ her bag behind. Hm. I grabbed it for her, though I figgered her leavin’ it behind had more to do with the quiet than forgetfulness. Though, she had donned a pair of basketball shoes for the occasion, and clothes she could wear on the court, if not her regular.
Between the two of us, Bele has followed Uncle’s favorite pastime, ignorin’ that ignert two-wheel one, with significantly more energy than me. If it wasn’t for Uncle’s annoyin’, unendin’ encouragment to play, no one would ever see me on the court. It involves way too much comradery and emotion for my taste. And way too much touchin’. And sweatin’.
As an eight-year-old, he’d convinced me the hand-eye coordination I’d learn in the game would be great for my art. Psh. Lowdown lyin’ ogre.
Bele dragged in front of the three of us. To have the opportunity to play with Mama and Papa watchin’, Bele’s apparent disinterest this mornin’ rang eerily wrong.
Despite it bein’ early on a Saturday, there were an abundance of cars in the lot, and a scrabble of us queuin’ at the front door to enter. Most folk looked like regulars, a bunch of cousins, but there were enough strange faces to surprise me. Then I heard the PA rumble inside. PA? Had I missed somethin’? The only time I’d ever heard an announcer in one of the community gyms had been durin’ end-of-summer championship tourneys.
Small-steppin’ our way inside behind the odd crowd, the stands were already way fuller than I expected. Mostly they’d be empty, and the attendees would be millin’ under the irons waitin’ to grab a rebound, warmin’ up for the comin’ pickup games. But the near, full court wasn’t divided into shorter east-west ones for pickup. And several stern-lookin’ troll refs gathered at the scorer’s table. Like a real game.
Papa dragged me out of bed, not Mama, or I would’ve been in the know.
All the bulls on the court wore colors, dreads tied back out of the way, ogres to a one. I caught sight of Uncle Ike. He gave me a grin and a wave. I found myself wavin’ back at the lowdown lyin’ ogre.
As we worked our way to a sorta open area around the tenth row close to mid court, Bele jerked to a stop. I followed the path of her glare. Found Uncle Jam first, then noted the shorter Ezra beyond him. And then—Woriz and Izig. Hadn’t seen those two since Bele and I headed for high school, leavin’ them back in what, the fourth, fifth grade. Maybe even third. And they loved to rub it in that they were older than us by six months.
Mama’s hands reached up and cradled Bele’s shoulders. Papa worked to get around the two of them, and headed directly toward Uncle Jam, whose face twisted into his characteristic troll grin.
A couple of folks cleared their throats behind me, and I pressed against Mama to get on down the row. As we staggered forward, it occurred odd to me that Mama didn’t join Papa to give Ezra a hug. And as oddly, she remained almost attached to Bele.
I’m autistic but not a fool. I know Bele had exploded with some kind of drama about the time we headed for high school. Not that I cared, then. Before I became the world-wise bull I am—snort. Maybe I shoulda encouraged her to talk about it. ’Cause, for it to be a big deal today, almost a decade later, I wasn’t the supportive brother I ought to have been.
~
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